Remembered Serenade (Warrender Saga Book 9)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘But you must let me explain — ’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain!’ he interrupted violently. ‘It’s perfectly simple. You wanted those lessons and so you went crying to him — ’

  ‘I did not go crying to him! And I’m sure he never told you any such thing. The fact was — ’

  ‘Sara told me,’ he said flatly. ‘She saw you clinging to him and crying in the garden. And she overheard you asking him for money.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that at all!’ she cried angrily. ‘He had always said — offered — ’

  ‘I don’t care how it was.’ Suddenly his voice was cold and extremely well controlled.; ‘There are no circumstances which could make it anything but contemptible. Do you know what he did, so that he could satisfy your inexcusable demands? He started to sell some of his collection — the things he loved — ’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no. It’s not true,’ she cried wildly. ‘He couldn't do any such thing. Why should he? What possible need could there be for that? He’s quite a wealthy — ’

  ‘He lost heavily in that crash of the Home and Overseas Company. He’d have had to economize sharply in any case. And at just that moment, along you came snivelling for money to pay for these ridiculous lessons with that old Russian vulture. You make me sick, you little — gold-digger!’

  He flung the word at her, and at the same moment he released his grip on her, so that she actually staggered back against the wall.

  ‘Elliot, listen to me! I didn’t know — I hadn’t the slightest idea! How could I? Please believe me when I say — ’

  But he brushed past her as though he hardly saw her and went out of the room. Two seconds later she heard the front door close, and she was alone in the house. Alone with her shattered dreams and a horrified sense of remorse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOR several moments Joanna stood there, just where Elliot had left her, crushed by a complete sense of disaster and grief which seemed to encompass all the reasons for her wretchedness. Remorse for what she had done to Mr. Wilmore, anguish because of Elliot’s fury, and despair at the way her hopes were crashing in ruins.

  But slowly there sifted to the top of her consciousness the thing which gave her most agony, Mr. Wilmore, who had never been anything but kind and generous and understanding, had started to sell his precious treasures because she — she — had gone and asked him for money.

  Shame and remorse engulfed her at the thought, and she actually gave a little groan of distress as she told herself she had been guilty of that most contemptible of all reactions — ingratitude.

  ‘I must stop it!’ She spoke aloud in her misery, ‘He mustn’t go on with this. Whatever he’s sold he must somehow get back. If I never have another lesson in my life, I am not going to have things paid for that way.’

  Still trembling with the shock of revelation, she almost tottered to the telephone and unsteadily dialled the number of Wilmore Manor. There was quite a long silence, and then the precise tones of Mrs. Trimble replied.

  ‘Mrs. Trimble — ’ somehow she steadied her voice — ‘please could I speak to Mr. Wilmore?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Joanna. That is Miss Joanna, isn’t it? He left home yesterday, and I’m not expecting him back for some time.’

  ‘Can you tell me where he’s gone?’ Joanna tried to make her voice sound clear and not hoarse with urgency.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. He’ll be travelling round, visiting friends, and I haven’t got a forwarding address for the moment. I think he had some idea of joining a friend who goes yachting in the Mediterranean. Someone who shares his interest in collecting. It will do him good to get away a bit. He has been just a trifle depressed lately.’

  Joanna wanted desperately to ask if the friend with his yacht in the Mediterranean might be the sort of person who would buy treasures from Mr. Wilmore’s collection. But her courage failed her. She said something about writing, and hoping her letter could be forwarded, and then she rang off and stood staring at the telephone, wondering what else she could do.

  Perhaps, if she could not reach Mr. Wilmore, she might do something from the other end. She started resolutely to dial Oscar Warrender’s number. But then she stopped, realizing that it would be quite impossible to explain things to the famous conductor on the telephone. She would have to see him. He was going to take a good deal of personal convincing that his cherished plans must be abandoned.

  She left a note for her mother on the hall table, explaining that she had had to go out once more. Then she went out into the street again and, because she felt a terrible sense of urgency now, she took a taxi. Only when she was in it, driving westward, did she reflect bitterly that, in a sense, it was Mr. Wilmore’s money she was wasting. The money he had produced from the sale of his treasures.

  She felt a few tears trying to force their way between her lashes, but she controlled them somehow. Tears were not going to do her much good if she needed to impress Oscar Warrender.

  Never before had she presumed to go to the Warrender apartment without a specific summons, and she felt little less than a trespasser as she pressed the bell and stood outside, waiting in barely-controlled trepidation. Then, quite unexpectedly, it was Warrender himself who opened the door, which almost robbed her of the few words she had prepared.

  ‘Can I come in, please?’ she said timidly. ‘S-some-thing has happened, and I have to see you about it.’

  ‘Well then — come in.’ He stood aside for her and told her to go into the studio, which at least was reasonably familiar ground to her.- Then he followed her in, told her to sit down and, to her surprise, asked her if she felt in need of a brandy.

  ‘Oh, no, thank you!’ Joanna wondered for the first time how sick she looked, ‘But perhaps a strong coffee if — if — ’

  He rang the bell and ordered a strong coffee. Then he simply waited for her to speak.

  ‘It’s about — the money,’ she got out at last.

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money Mr, Wilmore has been giving for my lessons. It must stop. They must stop. I didn’t know — but he’s been selling things from his collection to raise it.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Warrender imperturbably. ‘And nothing — I repeat nothing — must put a stop to your lessons. — Ah, here’s your coffee. Drink it up and stop talking nonsense. And then you can explain to me what all this is about.’

  She drank the coffee obediently. It was hot enough to burn her mouth slightly, but she was almost glad of that because it partially offset the greater anguish in her mind. Then she put down her cup, rattling it slightly in the saucer because her hand was still unsteady, and she said more calmly,

  ‘What I said is quite true, Sir Oscar. I had no idea, but apparently Mr. Wilmore dropped a great deal of money in the recent Home and Overseas crash. He would have had to economize anyway. But just at that moment I — I went to him and asked him to help me with money for my lessons. He agreed generously and almost instantly, as you well know. It never entered my head that there was any real difficulty. But now I’ve heard — ’

  ‘From Wilmore himself?’

  ‘Oh, no. From — ’ she swallowed — ‘his nephew. There’s no question about the facts. His uncle’s started to sell — ’

  ‘All collectors sell unwanted items from time to time,’ said Warrender impatiently. ‘They find they have duplicates, or their preferences change and what was once precious seems no longer to be so. Or sometimes items will rise so steeply in value on the market that it seems a good time to sell rather than retain something for sheer sentiment.’

  ‘What Mr. Wilmore chose to do with his collection for personal reasons is no concern of mine.’ Joanna was surprised at the firmness of her own voice. ‘But he sold because of my request, not for any preference of his own. That’s the difference.’

  ‘Well then, it seems he valued your artistic progress beyond whatever he sold. What more is there to say?’ returned Warrender shortly.
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br />   ‘Sir Oscar, you’re arguing from entirely false premises, and you know it,’ stated Joanna, and she was vaguely pleased to see a look of startled annoyance come into his eyes.

  He was silent for almost half a minute, then he said slowly,

  ‘No. I’m arguing from what I consider to be the right scale of values.: Wilmore presumably made his decision from the same viewpoint. Of course he treasured his collection, certainly to the extent of not selling any of his favourite possessions. But his interest in developing a unique talent was also obviously of worth to him. He balanced one important consideration against another and made his choice.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ She wondered afterwards how she found the courage to go on arguing flatly with the great Oscar Warrender. ‘He said “yes” to me because I cried and he hadn’t the heart to say “no”. That’s what I can’t accept. That’s what makes me feel a cheap cadger. And that’s why the whole thing has to stop.’

  ‘What whole thing has to stop?’ asked Warrender, in a tone of such dangerous calm that she felt as though someone had hit her under the chin.

  ‘I can’t let him pay for any more lessons. I can’t continue — ’

  ‘The payments have already been arranged. Some of the money has already been passed over. You don’t suppose Volnikov is the type to give lessons on credit, do you?’ said Warrender brutally. ‘You’re talking like a child. I tell you the arrangements have all been made — ’

  ‘Then they can be unmade, so far as the future is concerned,’ she retorted as brutally in her turn.

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ The conductor got up and towered over her. ‘These lessons — paid for willingly by Wilmore so far as we know — may be a small piece in the jigsaw of the whole enterprise, but they are vital, I dislike giving you an inflated idea of your own importance, but you too are vital to the scheme. A trained and perfected “you” who will need every one of those lessons. Without that, the whole thing falls to the ground. Bernard Fulroyd’s humble hopes and ambitions, for instance, will be blasted. Have you thought about that? He isn’t a young man. He hasn’t got time on his side if he is to see the well-deserved success of his own fine work. If — ’

  ‘You’re just playing on my sympathies!’ cried Joanna defensively, though she was shaken by this argument.

  ‘Of course I’m playing on your sympathies. They and a rich vein of sentimentality seem to be all that’s working in you at the moment,’ returned Warrender coldly, ‘You have no sense of logic or proportion — or loyalty. What about the people who have put their work and their hopes and their faith in you?’

  ‘Oh — ’ Joanna buried her face in her hands and tried to think clearly and fairly. And what rose before her at that moment was not the kind face of Mr. Wilmore, but the deprecating, eager face of Bernard Fulroyd. ‘How can I take the money, knowing what I do?’ she muttered helplessly.

  ‘You aren’t taking it,’ Warrender told her cynically. ‘Volnikov is taking it — with both hands. We don’t know — any of us — just how Wilmore financed and is continuing to finance your training. But the arrangements have been made and must continue. Do you understand? They must continue, if all the work and hopes of several people are not to founder.’

  ‘Couldn’t we somehow get the money from somewhere else? I mean, whatever money is needed from this point?’

  ‘Not from anywhere I know of,’ replied Warrender coolly. ‘I have channelled any resources I can myself call on into the actual production and performances. And I assure you I am losing no sleep over any sacrifices my backers may be making. They are responsible adults capable of choosing for themselves. You’d better credit Wilmore with equal sense.’

  ‘It’s different,’ Joanna protested, but more uncertainly.

  ‘Well, I didn’t have to go and cry on anyone’s shoulder,’ Warrender admitted with a dry smile. ‘But the principle is the same. A good many sacrifices go into any worthwhile artistic endeavour. You have to accept that, child. And you’ll make some yourself before we are finished.’

  She sat there digesting that in silence, and presently she became aware with blinding clarity that of course he was right. What she had to sacrifice was Elliot’s good opinion of her.

  Once she had faced that and, with fearful reluctance, accepted it, the conflict was over. So was the conversation, to all intents and purposes. She got up after a moment or two and said quietly, ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’m not absolutely sure you are. But I do see that I can’t let everyone down now.’

  ‘Sensible girl,’ observed Warrender. ‘And if it’s any consolation to you, Wilmore would be the first to be appalled if you withdrew now and wrecked the whole enterprise. All you can do now for everyone, including Wilmore, is to see that our combined efforts are not wasted.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Joanna. And for the first time she realized all that was implied by that promise.

  It pursued her, haunted her and, in some strange way, sustained her during the next few months, which were probably the most important and productive of her whole life. Certainly so far as her career was concerned.

  The very fact that she was unhappy personally enabled her to sink her identity and all her energies in her artistic life. Here she began to finding an abiding consolation for what she had lost elsewhere. Everything she had been with difficulty absorbing from Tamara Volnikov began at last to make sense and become part of her, and what had been a conscious effort at first now began to be second nature.

  She saw and heard nothing of Elliot during this time and, after thinking feverishly of various ways by which she might see him and force him to understand her dilemma better, she abandoned even the hope of ever regaining his friendship or what she had fondly hoped might be his love.

  To Mr. Wilmore she wrote a letter, stiffer in its phrasing than she would have wished it to be, but which in part at least explained how she felt about what he was doing for her. She tried to find some balance between dignified gratitude and excessive selfblame but, though she altered the wording many times, she could not be satisfied with the result. In the end she just sealed it up and sent it, hoping to hear from him in terms that would reassure her.

  It was many weeks before his reply came, and it was posted from a port of call in southern Italy. He wrote pleasantly about the trip he was making on his friend’s yacht, and only at the end did he mention the matter which had caused her so much anguish.

  ‘There is no need for you to worry about the money for your lessons, my dear,’ he wrote in a postscript. ‘I seldom paid anything more willingly, and I do assure you that no absolute treasure in my collection had to be sacrificed to this worthy cause.’

  With that she had to be satisfied. She was satisfied to a great extent, at least so far as he was concerned. Only it did nothing whatever, of course, to restore respect or good feeling between her and Elliot.

  There was no one to whom she could confide her inmost thoughts, least of all to her mother, who was beginning to revive after the shock of her financial disaster. To Warrender she had said all that could be said to an outsider and, although as the weeks passed she became almost fond of the hard but fascinating old artist who directed her stage studies, she knew that Volnikov would not even have been interested in any problem connected with the money which paid her for her marvellous coaching.

  Oddly enough, it was Warrender’s wife, Anthea, who came nearest to being a confidante. Coming on Joanna one afternoon when she was waiting in the studio for Warrender who had been delayed, she exclaimed, ‘You sometimes look so sad these days, Joanna. This role isn’t getting you down in some way, is it? I mean — are you living it so wholeheartedly that you actually suffer with the character?’

  ‘It could be,’ Joanna smiled slightly. "‘And if so, it wouldn’t be a bad thing, artistically, would it?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Anthea agreed. ‘That’s part of being a real artist, of course. But don’t get depressed about your work. You’re doing so well. Even Oscar was excited today whe
n he was talking of the work going into production next month,’

  ‘Was he?’ Even now there was a sort of unreality about being able to cause excitement to an old hand like Oscar Warrender, and Joanna’s smile deepened. ‘I’m not worried, Anthea.; There’s a sort of confidence growing in me — an awareness that I’ve passed right out of the student stage, to the artist who understands what work and inspiration really mean.’

  ‘The biggest hurdle in any career,’ Anthea assured her. ‘So don’t let any personal issue worry you at this moment, if you can help it. Unless, of course, you can somehow identify it with the role you are going to play.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Joanna glanced at the other girl quickly.

  ‘Well, throughout this work you are playing the part of someone who has to remain silent and be misjudged. Sometimes that happens in one’s own life.’

  ‘You’re a witch!’ Joanna laughed protestingly.

  ‘No. Oscar told me a little and I did a bit of inspired guessing,’ Anthea confessed. ‘I may have got it wrong, and you don’t need to confide in me. But time is a strange thing, Joanna. There are few people who haven’t thought at one point or another that nothing can ever come right again. But it has a habit of doing so. I know. It happened with me and Oscar. And speaking of him, I think that’s the sound of his key in the door.’

  She smiled at Joanna and went out of the room, pausing only for a moment to kiss her husband as she passed him in the doorway.

  Whether or not this conversation had anything to do with it, from that day Joanna slipped finally and completely into the part of the silent girl who could not sing of her love until the moment before she died.

  Both Warrender and Volnikov had praise for her at last. Not excessive praise. But the kind of heart-warming, professional praise which made her feel, however humbly, at one with those two great artists themselves.